Off, off, off…
Long after I was diagnosed with OCD, I didn’t fully believe that I still performed many compulsions. I knew I obsessed about irrational things, but I mostly asked for reassurance about them, which wasn’t a horrible compulsion, and definitely wasn’t that weird—so I was all good.
I chose not to be on medication when I was pregnant or while nursing my first child. Thankfully, pregnancy seemed to improve some of the imbalances in my brain. I was less anxious while pregnant than I’d been during any other time in my life post-diagnosis. As my son grew and I began weening, bad OCD habits returned, but I was unaware of the effect they were having on my life. It’s funny how anxiety became the new normal. For me, OCD is less noticeable because it’s second nature for me to ruminate and in turn, make accommodations for the returning feelings. It’s like a reflex and it’s exactly what happened when my oldest was about eighteen months old.
It was a crisp autumn day, and I was getting ready to leave our house by loading up my huge diaper bag with all the necessary first-time mom items. My son insisted on being held most of the time, so I had him hanging on my hip as I struggled to wrestle the giant set of keys out of my pocket. I was almost out the door when I felt that internal voice whisper, “Did you turn off the oven?” Still lugging my 20-pound baby and 10-pound diaper bag, I ran back to the kitchen to check the knobs on the stove like I had other times before when we left the house. I looked, saw they were turned off and made my way back to the front door. I heard the voice again, this time a little louder, “Are you sure you saw that right? Were they really off?” I sighed to myself and obediently went to check them again. I stared. I counted. I even took deep breaths while wiggling my toes so I could take trust at the moment that the knobs were, in fact, off. I’d finish the ritual only to be tricked into checking it one last time, about 5 more times.
My arms were burning from carrying the adorable load bag back and forth. He was beginning to get irritated that we weren’t leaving as I’d promised. As I was counting the knobs again, for the last time, I heard him muttering something to himself. He didn’t talk much at this age, so when he did it was always exciting. He was saying, “Off. Off. Off,” as he used his chubby pointer finger to imitate what I was doing by pointing at the knobs on the stove. I must’ve been unknowingly saying those words over and over each time I returned to check. My face grew hot, and panic began to spread into my cheeks. The realization that my OCD-rooted words and actions were being imitated hit hard to my heart. I felt like an instant failure. I left the house with lingering anxiety about two separate issues. I still wasn’t convinced the stove was off and now I was a failure for showing my child how to successfully perform a compulsion. How could I hide this part of myself from him? Would he end up like me? But wait, I thought I was doing better?
That was a light bulb moment for me. I channeled my discomfort into getting my butt back in therapy because I definitely wasn’t keeping watch for my OCD to creep back in. But guess what? There was room for improvement and plenty of time for positive change. Therapy helped almost immediately. I was back in the drivers’ seat of my brain, ready to tell my OCD that it was a liar once again. It was many more years before I was medicated (I had two more precious babies), but God provided the therapy that carried me until I was able to take medication again.
The “off, off, off” memory, as I like to call it, is a precious one for me. I am reminded of how graciously God got my attention, through my toddler son’s sweet words. I am filled with gratitude that God loves me enough to sanctify me through my OCD and even though it’s hard at times, God always provides.
